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  Sorcha wanted to console him, but he held himself aloof.

  “The bairns huddled in clusters and watched the curs beat their mams into submission. Then they separated the women into two groups: the ones they would kill and the ones comely enough to take with them.”

  Sorcha’s breathing escalated. War was an ugly thing, and her heart wept for these women and their bairns. But her pity was not nearly as intense as the anger pushing her fingernails into her palms. She expected nothing less from her father, but Keiran must have done something to prevent it. “What did ye do?”

  “I wanted no part in it, but your da ordered me and the other MacNeil warriors to take the women to the docks. We were expected to distribute the comely women equally on our allies’ ships, and the older, less appealing women—whom your da conveniently deemed Pagans—were to be tied to the oars of the ships.”

  “Oh Christ! Stop. I dinnae wish to hear more.” Sorcha felt ill. Shame washed through her. How could she possibly share blood with such a heinous man? She regretted pushing Keiran. There was nothing noble about what had happened in Leckmelm, nothing honorable, nothing worthy of respect.

  “Ye wanted to know and will allow me to finish.” Keiran grabbed her wrist when she tried to stand and continued without her consent. “We loaded the women aboard the Cerridwen—all of them, then Sileas and I went back for their bairns.”

  Tears rolled down Sorcha’s cheeks. Her heart swelled into her throat. Partly because Keiran had proven himself a champion and partly because she feared the words he’d not yet spoken. “Did they all survive?”

  Keiran nodded and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Sileas brought home sixty-seven women and one hundred and twenty-four bairns. Some of their men—the ones that survived—have since joined the clan.”

  “What happened to ye?”

  Keiran only stared at her for long moments, a mixture of panic and resolve lined his worried face. His chest heaved. A muscle tightened in his jaw. The upset in his eyes sent spirals of icy fear coiling around her spine. She held his hand in both of hers and asked again, “Ye said Sileas brought them back to Barra. What happened to ye?”

  “Your da and six of his loyal kinsmen caught us on the docks. I held them off until Sileas could escape out the inlet. I cut down my own kinsmen—your kinsmen—to protect the loins of my enemy.” The tendons in his neck bulged. “Your da called me a traitor and ran me through with his sword.”

  Sorcha swallowed a gasp. Her unblinking eyes burned as unexpected fury roiled through her stomach.

  “I should have died. I was choking on my own blood, when he spit on me, and proclaimed himself the victor. But he didn’t defeat me, Sorcha.”

  She heard Keiran’s next words in her head before he ever spoke them. “I killed him.”

  The world stopped for a moment. Her pulse pounded like a drum between her ears. She was stunned, but felt no anger toward Keiran. Had Da loved her or treated her with the slightest amount of dignity, she might have given over to rage. Instead, she felt vindicated.

  A flash of unexpected lightning startled her and the boom of thunder that immediately followed sent her into Keiran’s arms.

  “Come quickly.” He pulled Sorcha to her feet, and they raced to the croft-house in front of a sheet of rain.

  * * *

  This storm was Magda’s doing, Keiran decided as he watched the steady downpour out a small window of the croft-house. His auld friend had done her best to force him and Sorcha into seclusion since their arrival, but her conjured rainfall couldn’t have been more ill-timed.

  He’d been patient with Sorcha, resisted the urge to kiss her every night, resisted the need to touch her, but most of all, he’d resisted the desire to tell her he loved her. And now, she had even more reason to think he only wanted her title. What could he possibly say that would convince her otherwise?

  “Keiran.” He felt the heat of her body before she touched his arm.

  “I did not kill your father for his title,” he blurted out. “Ye have to believe me.”

  “I believe ye.”

  Surprised by her quick response, he spun around to face her. “Ye do?”

  “Ye are Clan MacNeil’s champion.” She rose up on her toes and brushed her lips over his. “And mine.”

  Her words and her kiss crushed the last of his resistance.

  Keiran claimed her mouth with a fierceness he couldn’t control. And Sorcha matched his intensity without a morsel of timidity. Tongues twirling, teeth scraping, hands searching—he reveled in the reality of what had been a fantasy for far too long.

  Desperate for air, he pulled away from her lips and slid his mouth down the column of her neck. She smelled like a shower of floral mist and tasted of sweet clover. Everything about her ripened his senses and heated his blood, especially the way she eagerly tugged at his garments.

  His cock jerked beneath his plaid. Knowing his need would soon control him, he stilled her hands on his belt. “Are ye certain this is what ye want?”

  She nodded, her eyes nigh shimmered with trust. “I want to know what it feels like to be touched by a man who loves me.” When she threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him back to her mouth, a shudder ripped through him.

  Her acceptance was the greatest victory he’d ever known. His chest burned. His heart rejoiced. And his body demanded he claim her once and for all…and forever.

  His lips never left her mouth as they disrobed and fell atop the bed in a frenzy. He caressed her arms, her breasts, her hips, and kissed her from chin to navel. His body hummed with desire, thrilled at the sound of her whimpers as he stroked her silken flesh, preparing her for what was to come. Then at last, he settled between her thighs. With his manhood poised at her entrance, he asked the gods to bless their union then committed himself to her spiritually.

  “Keiran.” She cupped his jaw with both hands, her knees tightened against his hips. “Ye do love me, don’t ye?”

  If it took the rest of his life, he intended to erase the doubt furrowing her brow. He gently pressed his lips to her forehead. “I love ye more than Morrigan loves Her warriors.” He kissed her chin. “I love ye more than Cailleach loves the earth.” He bent low and nipped the hardened tip of each breast. “I love ye more than Brigid loves Her daughters.” He then laced his fingers in hers and entered her.

  She squeezed his hands as she cried out like a virgin on her wedding night.

  He bore the ache seizing his loins and waited for her to adjust to him. “Like the puffin, I am now your mate for life.”

  She smiled then and arched her pelvis when he initiated the rhythm. With each thrust, she spread her legs a little wider, accepting him an inch at a time. She was tight and hot and slick and rippling along his length. She felt good, too bluidy good.

  Sweat poured down his chest. His seed boiled in his groin, but he refused to seek fulfillment without her. He reached between their bodies and stroked that swollen pebble hidden inside her curls.

  She stiffened. “Keiran, please stop. Something’s wrong.”

  “Naught’s wrong. In fact, ’tis verra right.”

  The first wave of her climax gripped him like a silken fist.

  “Oh, Keiran!” she cried out her pleasure, dug her fingernails into his hand, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Hot liquid cascaded over him and triggered his own release.

  After the last of his seed left him, he rolled to his back, taking her with him, not yet willing to break the connection between their bodies. Skin to sweat-slicked skin, he held her close in his embrace and waited for their hearts to slow. He kissed her hair and tickled her back while he listened to the dwindling patter of raindrops. A grin played at the corner of his lips. He would have to thank Magda for the rain.

  Long minutes passed before Sorcha stirred to life. She lifted herself up and the look she wore was not one he’d ever seen on her before. ’Twas a saucy, mischievous expression. “I know not what ye did to me, but that was incredible.”

&nb
sp; “Aye. That it was.” His body still tingled in the aftermath. His muscles were weak and sated, yet he felt invigorated knowing he’d been the first to ever satisfy her.

  “I wish to do it again.” She flicked his sensitive nipple with the tip of her tongue and rolled her pelvis round his groin.

  “Now?” he questioned even as his cock responded to her movements.

  “Now. Tonight. On the morrow…” The last of her words were drowned out by Tàiseal’s cry.

  “Wait.” He stilled her rocking hips, closed his eyes, and flew with the falcon over the sea where he saw six ships on the horizon.

  “What is it?” Sorcha asked, no doubt reading the worry on his face.

  His eyes sprung open. “Your husband has arrived.”

  Chapter Four

  “Heave!” Sileas ordered the rowers the moment Keiran stepped aboard the Cerridwen. “Did ye not hear the alarm, mon? Where the bluidy hell have ye been?”

  Not even a war could lessen Keiran’s spirits. He felt invincible, like he could rid the world of his enemies with the flick of his finger. He swaggered toward Sileas and assisted him with the rigging while the topmen overhead raised the canvas. “I’ve been…about.”

  “About? We’re on the brink of battle and—” Sileas paused, stood upright, and scratched his thick copper beard. “Ye bedded her.”

  Keiran’s grin was his only response.

  “’Tis about bluidy time.” Sileas smacked Keiran on the back then tied off the rope dangling from the yardarm. “The way the gods cling to your shoulders, she is likely already with child. And if she’s anything like my Maura, then…”

  With child. Keiran froze. The merriment fled from his person behind a rush of worry. Of course he wanted bairns—hordes of them—but he didn’t want a single one born a bastard. He raked his fingers through his hair and surveyed twelve MacNeil ships forming a V on either side of the Cerridwen. “Send a signal to the fleet to take down all but the flagship. I’ve a personal vendetta to settle with Laird Ranald.”

  “I hope that vendetta involves making our queen a widow?”

  Keiran bore his glare into the approaching ships. “Aye. That is does, my friend. That it does.”

  As the distance closed between the fleets, Keiran prayed to Morrigan to watch over him and his kinsmen and offered a similar prayer up to Brigid to protect Sorcha until his return. He then soared over Kisimul with Tàiseal and watched Sorcha pace the stone walkway behind the parapet. Be safe, my love.

  “Load the cannons!” Sileas bellowed the order, drawing Keiran out of his thoughts.

  Fully armed for combat, Keiran prepared himself mentally for hand-to-hand warfare. For the first time in his life he anticipated the battle with enthusiasm. He welcomed the moment he would slide his sword between Hector’s ribs.

  A dark cloud settled over them. Lightning ripped through the sky like clashing swords of gods in battle. He should have known Magda would play her part. Knowing she was with him empowered him all the more.

  The first cannon fired with an announcing boom, and the war began.

  Hector’s ships stood no chance against the MacNeil fleet. Soon, five of his six vessels were afire. The sea bawled with the oaths of dying men, but Keiran blocked out their pleas and prepared to invade the flagship. The air filled with clouds of acrid stench, scorching Keiran’s eyes and lungs. Gray smoke enveloped everywhere, making it difficult to see when he tossed a four-hooked grappling iron over the wooden rail of the enemy ship. Keiran wrestled the ropes alongside his kinsmen until the two vessels sat abreast—bow to bow, stern to stern.

  Planks dropped onto the rails of the two ships and the MacNeil kinsmen swarmed the flagship, but there were no men aboard to greet them. No clash of swords. No enemy hanging from the halyards or hiding below deck. And no Hector. The flagship was abandoned save for a terrified boy squeezing the tiller that guided the ship.

  “’Tis a ruse,” Sileas announced what Keiran already knew.

  Trembling, he climbed a companionway at the stern of the ship and gawked at Kisimul sitting unguarded in the bay. “Sorcha,” he whispered as fear clutched his entire being.

  * * *

  Paralyzed with worry, Sorcha hugged herself around the middle and watched the battle through the crenellated stone work atop the stronghold. The explosions had dwindled, leaving behind an infernal sea of smoke and belching fire. The waiting had soured her stomach hours before, but questions now left a metallic taste on her tongue.

  Was Keiran safe? Was he suffocating, drowning, burning? The worst possible scenarios escalated in her head. Had he faced off with Hector? Had he won?

  She hated this helpless feeling shredding her insides. She hated the regret eating a whole in her chest. She should have told him how she felt about him before he boarded the ship. Her emotions seemed to attack her all at once as she watched the burning vessels sink. Tears burned her eyes and convulsions rolled through her gut, but she quickly collected herself. She would not show weakness in front of her kinsmen.

  “M’lady, ye are needed at once in the Great Hall.” The woman who’d been Peigi’s wet nurse since her infancy stepped up behind Sorcha.

  “What is it, Edina?”

  “I cannot say more.” Edina clutched the sides of her soiled kirtle and lowered her eyes. “Please, come quickly. ’Tis Peigi.”

  Sorcha didn’t wait for further explanation before she raced down the spiral stairwell of the north tower. She might not be able to raise a broadsword in battle, but she could protect her sister. Her confidence fell to her toes when she entered the Great Hall.

  Warriors lined the perimeter of the room, weapons drawn. For a fleeting moment she felt guarded until she realized they were not her warriors. Icy terror froze her feet to the floor when she laid eyes on Hector sitting at the high table shouting at Peigi to refill his drink.

  The scene was surreal, shocking, familiar. His dark soulless eyes found Sorcha’s from across the hall, then his lips curled into a threatening snarl. “Good den, wife.”

  A mixture of fury and fear numbed Sorcha’s limbs as she watched Peigi pour ale into his goblet. Peigi shook, she cried, she lifted her red swollen eyes to Sorcha in a silent plea to help her. Sorcha bit back the urge to scream at Peigi to run, knowing Hector wouldn’t hesitate to give the order to kill her. She was his captive, as was every wide-eyed woman in the hall filling his warrior’s troughs.

  “Have ye no greeting words for your husband?” Hector emptied the contents of his goblet in a single swallow. His arms were wrapped in soiled bandages, no doubt hiding his disease. Unfortunately, it hadn’t killed him yet.

  “Ye are unwelcome in my home.” She wanted to lunge at him and choke him and watch him die while she strangled the last breath from his lungs.

  He held his chest in a mock display of hurt. “I expected a grand celebration to honor my new position.”

  “Ye have no position here,” she snapped back. “I am chieftain over Clan MacNeil.”

  “Ye are my wife. Everything in your possession is mine—the stronghold, the land, the chieftainship.” As fast as a whiplash, Hector threw a dagger that pinned Sileas’s wife to a trestle table by her skirt.

  Maura screamed and dropped the pitcher she’d been carrying.

  The crash of ceramic ripped through Sorcha’s ears like a hot blade. She lurched forward to aid Maura, but caught herself when Hector rose from the table. His dominant stance bound her in invisible shackles. For four years she’d tiptoed around him. She knew his moods, his warning looks, his gestures, and felt defeated to be submitting to him again.

  He stalked toward Maura, retrieved his blade, and threatened her with the tip. “Go to the docks and await the arrival of your kinsmen. Tell them I have their chieftain, and if they wish to keep her alive, they will abide by my instructions.”

  “What are your instructions, m’lord?” Maura choked out.

  “Have them board a single ship—all of them. Tell them to toss their shot into the water and return to
sea.”

  Maura’s fair skin turned ashen against her flame-red hair. She glanced at Sorcha, awaiting approval, which Sorcha gave without pause. Sorcha knew what Hector was capable of and she had no intention of defying him. For now.

  The instant Maura was out of earshot, Hector summoned a dozen of his warriors. “Gather the men off the western side of the isle and board their ships. Go after them, surround them. When the sun breaks the horizon at dawn, load the cannons and blast them to kingdom come.”

  The kinswomen’s sharp gasps hissed through the hall.

  Horror gripped Sorcha with sharp claws. She had to do something to save them. To save Keiran. Pleading with Hector was futile. Cursing him would gain naught. Her surrender was what he wanted and exactly what she would give him if it meant protecting her people.

  “More ale!” Hector shouted at a serving maid.

  Sorcha grabbed a nearby pitcher and hoped her kinswomen followed her lead. They were hesitant at first, but once she informed them of her plan, word traveled quickly. Getting Hector and his kinsmen blootered was the only way the women would ever be able to fight them.

  “We will slit their throats in their sleep. Every last one o’ them,” one woman whispered to another in the cellar as she popped the lid open on another barrel of mead.

  “Nay. There are some I want unharmed.” Sorcha had spoken very little to Hector’s men in the four years she’d been married to him, but she’d known all their wives. “I’ll tell you exactly which ones we shall save.”

  The next few hours proved to be excruciating, but soon Hector’s men succumbed to the drink. One by one, they fell upon the floor rushes to seek their slumber. But not Hector.

  “Stay with the girl.” He issued the order to his seneschal standing beside Peigi, then latched his thick fingers around Sorcha’s wrist and dragged her out of the Great Hall. “Your sister will remain untouched as long as ye continue to behave in the manner expected of a wife.”

  “Where are ye taking me?” Her heels dug into the floor. Her stomach rolled with fear. And her heart beat out of cadence waiting for him to respond. He remained silent as he dragged her up the stairwell and into her father’s solar.